


Surrender Becomes Power

by j_alfie



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Batjokes, M/M, Pre-Canon, and whatever made them, first encounter, the movie made me do this, weird shit again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7711495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_alfie/pseuds/j_alfie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Way before anything, Bruce went to Joker's nightclub to investigate its mysterious owner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender Becomes Power

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt (by @thekingdombythesea): "You like my mouth? You like it. You do. I caught you staring."  
>  
> 
> This is strictly based on the squad movie, which tbh places the Joker's character in a really awkward position. It's not how I usually understand the batjokes relationship, but for f's sake would the world acknowledge this Joker's PURRING from that kitchen scene?  
>  
> 
> (And this time I feel it's especially important for me to) apologize for any malapropism in advance for English is not my first language.

Bruce had never been used to waiting, and yet here he was, pulling through his seventeenth minute sitting with his hands relaxed upon his knees. He imagined he’d have been interrogating, fist fighting, or at least risking lives for the past sixteen minutes. However, none of those happened. This place was but a regular nightclub, whose biggest legal controversy might be drinks laced with ecstasy. That didn’t leave him much to do besides waiting, and that made him even more anxious. His purpose here was to investigate the owner, guy of freaky makeup and uncanny ways, as according to words on the streets. Not to wait with his hands open.

The owner had no name. He was only referred to as _The Joker_. Apart from this one, he had a few other businesses. Nightclubs, underground fighting arenas, and the like. He ran them like a typical gang leader. What was not so typical was how _clean_ he was underneath. Nothing came up when Bruce looked him up. He had no recorded past, no family members; his money had no sources. Flesh and bones were all he had. Bruce had no choice but to step out of his control room and meet the man in person.

“ _My honoured lord! My most dear lord!_ ” Entered the Joker, arms wide open with a dangling cane, “Gotham’s very own King and Prince."

Bruce noticed that he carried an empty holster as well. It was an adequate gesture. He then smiled and replied, “my excellent good friend."

“You’re here,” the Joker took his hand with a whole-hearted smile, then tapped another on top of his. A big bloody mouth tattoo on the back of his left hand laughed right beneath Bruce’s eyes. And yet they said he didn’t do hand shakes.

“For business or pleasure?” He paused for a second, less in wait for an answer than for his own mind to turn around, “business it is."

He gestured for Bruce to sit down, while he himself sat on the table right in front of him. His spread knees almost touched Bruce’s. His tattooed hands on top of the cane were a little difficult to stare at. Bruce leaned back, glancing over the golden chain drapes, “busy night. Thanks for squeezing me in.”

A taste of sarcasm was meant there, but it seemed to have missed the target. His companion was still as cheered as a canary, ”for you,” he said, “only for you, Bruce. Can I call you Bruce?"

Bruce nodded, “what do I call you?"

“Why, of course you can.”

Bruce threw him a confused look. Yet he just kept on smiling, as if all was perfectly normal for him. Smile. Smile. Smile. And then without shifting his fixed eyes, he told his people to leave. One of them was not entirely comfortable with this order. The right-hand man, Bruce noted.

They talked business alright. Wine was spilt. Fake proposals were made. The small talk jokes went slightly less satisfying. Bruce would have found out more clues about him, were the Joker not so obsessed with word play. His speeches were full of abstract ideas, elusive references, and, occasionally, traces of mental instability. 

“I feel obliged to tell you, Bruce dear, that you aren’t really making a convincing case,” the wired orator decided to recede from their negotiation.

“What would you have me do?” Bruce asked, starting to see that this night might turn out very unproductive.

“Look alive! Don’t let me bore you,” the Joker urged as he raised his left hand to hide the lower half of his face behind it. He laughed a few dry laughs, making it hard to tell whether the intention was to amuse or to agitate.

Bruce cracked faintly out of politeness. There was silence, and a grin surfaced on the Joker's scarlet lips.

“You like my mouth?” His cane tilted towards Bruce as he bent closer, soon it was put down on the ground, “you like it. You do. I caught you staring."

_You do you do you d_ o. While his tongue tangled with these two syllables, the green-haired Joe kneeled slowly, _scraping_ into the space between Bruce's legs. The sweat on his palms sinked into tailored fabric. It was meant to be made flimsy for summertime. _This_ was not. This was… Bruce had no idea. What are you doing? He asked himself.  _What are you doing?_ He asked again.

“What would you have me do?” The Joker looked at him, eyes flaming fanatic at the bottom of the sunken dark holes. He had hold of Bruce’s cock now. His left hand. His mouth.

The crazy one opened his mouth wide and his whole tongue sticked out to lick through that tattoo before taking Bruce in with it. His tongue had been burning from those delirious babbling he’d been feeding Bruce, and the Joker knew well how to leverage it before it lost its charm. He was so good at it. Bruce should resist. He should force him to let go, smack him unconscious, crush a bone or two in that hand. He _should_ have control as he always did. But again, that was merely what he always _did_.

The Joker’s throat tightened again around the tip as he swallowed pre-cum and slaver. It almost had him choked when he felt the touch of fingernails trailing down his skull. Caressing fingers slipped under the chin with gentle scratches. The voice above his head teased, “you’re the type, then."

He looked up wondering, awing at the other man’s posture of ease amidst all the heat. His mind went hazier than ever, but calmer also. He wasn’t sure if he liked it this way. He squinted, though couldn’t really see—

“Do I get a purr?”

He was smiled at. Wasn’t that magical, he thought.

It was truly nice… _Making your acquaintance, Mr. Wayne_.


End file.
